The Second Reginald Bretnor Megapack

by Reginald Bretnor

  Finally, Timuroff gave in with reasonably good grace. “I see I am outvoted.” He smiled at them. “I just hope you are right and I am wrong—and that someone comes up with something quick and positive that we can do.” Then he allowed the conversation to drift into less controversial channels—when they should consult Judge Faraday again; investigative avenues to be explored; agencies which might, in due course, be expected to cooperate. Dr. Grimwood summoned Mrs. Hanson, who twittered over them and served a round of drinks; and after not too long a while they dispersed. Timuroff was not happy. Instinct told him that prompt and drastic action was required; now action was denied him. He seethed inwardly, unable to be angry with the doctor, so genuinely concerned about the risk he himself might run, or with Pete, who was too old a friend, or Norman Edstrom, simply following his sense of law and duty. On the drive home, he conversed politely, mostly about Evangeline. Then, pleading weariness, he went to bed with his frustration, to doze and wake and dream, and toss uneasily for an hour or more, till Liselotte joined him and, by her presence, soothed him into a deeper and less troubled sleep.

  It was not a sleep he was allowed to finish. At five fifteen, the phone burst into it, tearing it to shreds, bringing him wide awake immediately. He lifted it before it rang again.

  “Tim? Is that you, Tim?” It was Pete’s voice, and Pete was badly shaken.

  Softly, trying not to rouse Liselotte, who had only stirred and mumbled in her sleep, Timuroff said, “Yes?”

  “Tim. It’s Hanson. He—he’s dead.”

  Timuroff caught his breath. Then, “Hang up,” he said. “I’ll call you on the other phone.”

  Silently he rose, put on his bathrobe, went into his study. Pete answered instantly.

  “What happened, Pete?”

  “Jake’s brother-in-law just called up. They found him in his cell during a bed check. It looks like he took poison.”

  “What kind?” snapped Timuroff.

  “Cyanide, they think—the old reliable.”

  “Did Harrell’s relative have any other information?”

  “Nobody saw anything. Nobody heard anything. He was just dead, that’s all.”

  “What about his cellmate?”

  “That was kind of odd. They transferred the guy out on the swing shift, and didn’t put anybody in his place. Hanson was alone.”

  Timuroff, trying to shift his mind into high gear, was silent.

  “God, who’d have thought it?” Pete went on, his voice deeply troubled. “It looked like everything was safe for a few days anyway, with Hemmet and Miranda getting their tapes back and thinking all the pressure had come off.” Timuroff refrained from pointing out that everything had not looked safe to him. “Maybe that’s the trouble,” he replied. “Perhaps they started feeling too secure—secure enough so that they could have Hanson murdered and blame it on Heck. A poison murder’s easy to pin on an M.D., and here they’d have the motive ready-made—so that Hanson couldn’t break and confess that Heck hired van Zaam and then had van Zaam killed. All very plausible, especially with a hostile press and Hanson having no recent visitors except his employer and his wife. Listen, Pete, you’d better get in touch with Traeger right away. Kielty’s going to be up there sniffing for cyanide as soon as he can get a warrant, and you can bet he’ll find it. Traeger’s going to have to watch him every minute, and Heck’s attorneys had also better be there. It’s a chemical with lots of other uses; for all I know, Heck even may have used it in making Muriel Fawzi or Evangeline. I’ll ask him if there’s any in the house when I break the news to him, and I’ll call Bill immediately if the answer’s yes. All right?”

  “I’ll call Bill now,” Pete promised. Then he hesitated, and Timuroff could hear him swallow before continuing. “Tim,” he said, “after I talk to Bill, I’ll get hold of Edstrom. I was wrong. It looks to me as if we’d better set your plan in action.”

  “As soon as possible,” said Timuroff.

  He wakened Hector Grimwood and broke the news to him as gently as he could. He watched and waited until the shock of comprehension had made itself apparent on the doctor’s face, answered his outraged cries and questions, and saw him pass through anguish and despair to a revivifying anger. He had seen the phenomenon before. For a few seconds only, at the first impact of bad news, his friend displayed the symptoms of quavering old age; then, as anger rose, they vanished suddenly; his huge frame came erect, decisiveness replaced uncertainty.

  “They murdered. Hanson, Tim.” His voice was under tight control. “They murdered him, and probably they’ll try to blame me. Why is it, in spite of all that’s happened in my house, I can’t believe the sort of people we’re up against? What can we do?”

  “What I suggested. What else could possibly be quick enough?”

  Anger danced wildly in Dr. Grimwood’s eyes. “It’s mad,” he said, “but maybe where sanity has failed madness can succeed. All right, if Pete and Edstrom are persuaded, I’m willing too.”

  Timuroff called Pete, who had already been in touch with Edstrom, and who reported that the Treasury agent—after much convincing—had agreed.

  “I’ll have to wake up Penny Anne,” the doctor said. “I hate to tell her, but naturally she’ll want to be with Mrs. Hanson, and anyhow we’ll have to have her here when we reprogram Evangeline.”

  “Well, we can hold off for a day or two on that. How much will she need to know? I’d rather it didn’t get back to Liselotte, at least not ahead of time. She’s too intuitive.”

  “I’ll simply tell her it’s important, and swear her to secrecy, and promise that I’ll tell her the whole story later. Don’t worry. She’ll take my word for it, and she’s discreet.”

  “There are a lot of other things to think of, Heck. When it’ll be, for instance. We’ll have to wait, of course. There’ll be formalities. And I suppose there’s going to be a funeral too?”

  “I’m not sure. Mrs. Hanson may have his body shipped to Lassen County, where her whole family still fives. It seems to me she’s mentioned their having a cemetery plot up there. I have a feeling, too, that she won’t want to stay on here without him—which means I’ll have to find somebody else. As if things weren’t bad enough already!” He looked quizzically at Timuroff. “You know, Tim, I’ve never seen quite that expression on your face before. I can’t quite put it into words, but you look twenty years younger, somehow. You’re really looking forward to this confrontation, aren’t you?”

  “I wasn’t as close to Hanson as you were, Heck,” Timuroff replied apologetically, “and it is always good to get something finally settled.”

  Actually, he felt as if a spring too tightly coiled had been released, as though a beautifully precise mechanism perversely frozen had suddenly been set free to function and fulfill its purpose; and he realized that his expression and demeanor would have to be controlled so that they would not betray him. If his plan was to succeed, everything had to appear normal. For the time being at least, the seventeenth-century Timuroff would have to knuckle under to the humble twentieth-century antique arms dealer.

  He managed it quite well. It was not difficult to discipline his countenance during the scenes of feminine distress he was compelled to witness, first when Hector Grimwood told Penny Anne the news, then when he himself had to tell Liselotte, finally—and much more poignantly—on Kemble Street, when the doctor picked Mrs. Hanson up to drive her on the round of sad necessities prescribed by law. He did not go with them. Traeger’s men had already searched the house from top to bottom, finding no trace of cyanide. Young Tom Coulter had arrived, bringing another junior member of his firm, and everything was ready for Kielty’s visit Wisely, he decided that any such invasion would pass off much more smoothly in his absence, and went home to answer some of Liselotte’s questions and parry others, and to learn that she and Penny Anne planned to bring Mrs. Hanson to stay with the
m until her relatives came down from Lassen. Finally, she went away to keep a luncheon date, and he was able to call Edstrom and Reese Guthrie. Edstrom still was not too happy; obviously he had agreed to go along only because he could think of nothing else to do. Guthrie’s voice shook when he heard the news, and Timuroff realized that the ferocity of his eagerness—whipped up again by new guilt over Hanson’s death—would endanger their success unless he was very carefully coached beforehand. He invited him down for lunch, and told Emilia, who wanted to go shopping, not to worry, that he would have the Jade Pavilion send something in. Then he phoned Florencio Pambid, and asked his wife to have him call as soon as possible as there was going to be an opening for a couple at Dr. Grimwood’s.

  From then on, he lived between impatience and the need for precise planning, preparation, and rehearsal. Kielty, accompanied by two detectives, appeared at Kemble Street on schedule. He had his warrant, and he quite openly was gloating. His manner changed abruptly when Traeger told him that each searcher would be accompanied and watched. He started to get nasty, but dropped the subject surlily when Coulter told him coldly that there’d be no attempt to interfere with him, but that he would either have to use force or obtain a court order to prevent surveillance. Traeger and Coulter accompanied him personally. He was tense and nervous now, and his search was perfunctory and impatient, as though it were only a routine he had to follow. He left empty-handed, and Traeger phoned Timuroff immediately. “It looks like we’re in the clear for now,” he said, “but give the bastard a few days. He’ll be back.”

  “A few days is all we need,” Timuroff answered.

  Two days went by. Mrs. Hanson stayed the night with them, comforted as much as possible by Penny Anne and Liselotte. Next day, an uncle and a niece arrived, homely country folk set to do whatever family loyalty demanded, and moved her back to her apartment over the garage preparatory to taking her up north with them. It was announced officially that Hanson had committed suicide, but Jake Harrell had suggested cynically that it should have been called “suicide at the hands of a person or persons unknown.” On the afternoon of the second day, Hanson’s body was shipped north, and Mrs. Hanson and her kin left simultaneously, she with a check from Dr. Grimwood so generous that it started another freshet of her tears. On the morning of the third day, the Pambids were installed in their new jobs, keeping their edge-of-Chinatown apartment until Mrs. Hanson eventually returned for her possessions.

  Florencio had called Timuroff back almost immediately, and Timuroff had taken him into his confidence. He had told him about van Zaam and the dead girl, about Guthrie and Amos Ledenthal, about Hemmet and Miranda Gardner and Hanson. “It is a very dangerous game we’re playing, Florencio,” he had said. “If it goes wrong, we’ll be in serious trouble—though I don’t think you’ll run any great risk, even if you’re there. But I want you to know exactly what the situation is.”

  “I have played dangerous games before, senor,” Florencio had answered with a grin. “With the Japanese, and once with a man who came only to kill, like that van Zaam. Sometimes such games are necessary”—the grin vanished—“if we are to keep evil from the world. Bastante. You can rely on me.”

  After that, Florencio had been included in their discussions and rehearsals. Evangeline had been reprogrammed—though Penny Anne had balked a little when she heard her lines, and had required a good deal of coaxing to repeat them until they were as perfect as Timuroff demanded. Kielty had not yet returned. Hemmet had called personally to extend his sympathy, and twice again with legal advice and offers of his services should Hector Grimwood need them. To Timuroff’s delight, for he had expected difficulties, Traeger had informed him that neither by his voice nor by his manner had the doctor given Hemmet any hint that anything was in the wind.

  Meticulously, at Timuroff’s insistence, they went over each detail again and yet again, until everyone was letter-perfect in his part. Allowing himself to entertain no doubts but one, he quieted theirs, reassuring them by his own inner certainty whenever they seemed momentarily disheartened. As a final triumph, he managed to persuade Liselotte and Penny Anne to accept another invitation from the maestro—an invitation for which he had to connive, wheedle, and almost bribe—and leave the city for a day or two immediately after seeing Mrs. Hanson off.

  Only Olivia disquieted him. On his brief, infrequent visits to the shop she stared at him silently out of large, almost tearful blue eyes, asked him no questions whatsoever, and thereby let him know in no uncertain terms that she heartily disapproved of whatever he was up to. It was not until the morning of the third day, when he dropped in rather guiltily to scan his mail, that she broke her silence.

  “You boys are brewing up something, Mr. T.,” she told him. “I feel it in my bones, and I’m scared to death. I ought to call the cops, if we still had any cops to call. No”—she waggled an old-maiden-auntish finger at him—“don’t tell me anything… And don’t worry—I’m not going to try and interfere. But I’m telling you right now, if this comes out all right, and you and Pete still have your skins on when it’s over, I—” Her voice broke. “I’m damn well g-g-going to get that little station wagon out of one of you!” Timuroff promised her she would, and kissed her on the forehead, and told her that he loved her, and went away feeling guiltier than ever—and still more certain of himself in spite of it.

  He drove again out to Kemble Street, found the doctor and Florencio readying the poker parlor, and finally voiced his single doubt.

  “Do you think he’ll come?” he asked.

  “He’s been here every day,” Hector Grimwood answered. “He’d come trying to pick up information, if for nothing else. If he can’t come today, he’ll come tomorrow. Shall I call right now? If he’s in court, I’ll ask him to call back.”

  “Let’s get it over with,” said Timuroff.

  Hemmet was in his office. “Judson?” the doctor said. “I’m glad I caught you in.… No, there’s been no more trouble—thank God! But really I’ve been under terrible pressure. I must do something to relax a little, so I’m going to have a poker game, just like I’ve always had—though I’m afraid there aren’t too many of our people I can get. Socrates is too upset about his dagger, and Tesserault and Kalloch are both out of town, and naturally I can’t even ask Mario under the circumstances. But can you come? … Oh, I hope you can! Mr. Traeger, who’s been guarding me, is a good player, and we’ve scraped up a few more between us.… Good, good. Then we’ll see you at the usual time?… Yes, eight o’clock.… Good-bye.”

  He turned to Timuroff. “Well, that’s that. How did I sound, Tim?”

  “Perfect!” Timuroff was enthusiastic. “You couldn’t have done better. You made your voice sound just a little frantic without overdoing it.”

  “That reassures me. I’ve been a little worried I might spoil everything.” Hector Grimwood paused diffidently. “By the way—well, I hate to mention it, but you do have that expression on your face again.”

  Judson Hemmet entered the poker parlor at three minutes after eight o’clock. The hanging Tiffany lamp was bright over the green baize center of the table. Otherwise3 except for a faint light behind the burnished bar where Florencio was clinking glasses, the room was shadowed, and on the paneled walls a dark glow from the roaring fireplace danced its sunset colors.

  Hemmet entered, and stood there for a moment, tall, almost unnaturally erect, his severe face all pale highlights and sharp shadows. And when he entered, Timuroff felt another shadow fall across the room, and, neck hairs prickling, recognized that here—though very, very differently—there was a certainty equal to his own.

  Hemmet looked at the group seated at the table—Hector Grimwood banking, counting chips busily; Pete with shirt sleeves rolled up, helping him; Norman Edstrom sitting there relaxed, dealing mock blackjack hands to Timuroff; and, demure and beautiful between two vacant chairs, Evangeline.

&nb
sp; “Hello, Judson,” called Grimwood cheerfully. “Give your coat to Florencio and take a chair. You’ve met Pete Cominazzo?”

  Hemmet smiled, a smile that seemed no smile at all. His glance touched Pete, and for an instant the smile flickered and went out. “Yes, we’ve met,” he said. “How are you doing, Inspector?”

  “Just fine, Mr. Hemmet.” Pete waved a friendly hand. “You know Norm Edstrom here?”

  Hemmet obviously did not. He smiled at Edstrom and at Timuroff, and asked if Edstrom was another policeman; and Bill Traeger answered, “Norm’s a friend of mine. He’s in pharmaceuticals.”

  “And who have we here?” Hemmet asked. He hung his jacket on a chair beside Evangeline, the one across from Timuroff—as if instinctively he knew his true antagonist. “Hector, you haven’t introduced me to your girl friend. Don’t tell me you’ve taught her to play poker?” He sat down. “The usual stakes?”

  “Yes, a four-bit limit except for stud—then it’s a dollar.” The doctor pushed the chips toward him. “Here you are—twenty dollars’ worth, and of course debtor chips.”

  “None for the little lady here? Maybe you ought to deal her in—there are only five of us.”

  “Do you want to treat her?” Grimwood chuckled. “Personally, I agree with Scarne that poker is an excellent game for any number from two to seven.” He broke open a new deck, shuffled it, said, “High card deals.”

  Bill Traeger, to his left, received a noncommittal eight; then Hemmet drew the ten of clubs; Timuroff, separated by an empty chair from Evangeline, a five; Pete Cominazzo a red queen, and Hector Grimwood nothing but a trey. Pete took the cards, asked if the house rules allowed a round of stud, was told they did. He shuffled while Florencio discreetly took orders for their drinks. They played. Out of the round’s five hands, Hemmet won two, folded two others after his second or third card, lost one by bluffing against two pair which Timuroff, to be at all plausible, had to bet. When the deal came to the doctor, he chose seven-card stud, high-low, and again Hemmet took half the pot.